Chapter 120: Jake
It’s been thirty minutes since I set her down on her towel, and my skin’s still tingling.
Thirty. Full. Minutes.
It’s pathetic, really. I can admit that much. I’m sitting here, pretending to read, pretending to breathe like a normal person, while every inch of me hums with leftover electricity.
But hell—how could it not?
I’ve been thinking about her for days. The feel of her hand on my chest that night, even through a layer of fabric, my hands on the back of her thighs, has been burned into me ever since. Every time she laughs, or brushes past me, or says my name—my pulse spikes like I’m some idiot teenager again.
And then today happened.
Holding her like that—wet, shivering, almost nothing between us—
Her skin against mine.
Her arm looped around my neck.
The little tremor in her breath when I tightened my hold on her—
Yeah. I wanted to do very indecent, very illegal things with her right there on that beach. Things that would’ve gotten us both in trouble, and that I still haven’t stopped replaying in my head.
But instead of what I wanted, I put her down between Reid and me. Like the responsible fucking adult I’m supposed to be.
Now she’s lying on her side, half-wrapped in Reid’s hoodie, eyes closed, completely oblivious to the torture she’s causing. The hoodie isn’t zipped, of course—it hangs open, framing her bare stomach, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip catching sunlight like polished gold. Every soft inhale lifts her chest just a little, the fabric sliding against her skin.
And she’s asleep. Actually asleep.
She has no idea how dangerous she looks like that.
Her lips are pink again, not blue anymore, parted just slightly as she breathes. There’s a smudge of sand on her thigh, a single wet curl stuck to her neck.
I glance over at Reid. He’s looking too. Of course he is. His expression is quiet—contained—but his jaw ticks once, and I know he’s thinking the same damn thing.
We’ve seen plenty of women in our lives. Hell, we’ve both had our share of them. But none of them ever looked like her. None of them ever made us forget how to breathe just by existing.
When she shifts in her sleep, rolling a little closer, the hoodie slips further down her shoulder.
Reid exhales through his nose. I can’t help the small grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“Don’t even say it,” he mutters without looking at me.
“I wasn’t gonna,” I murmur back, still watching her.
“Good.”
But he’s smiling too, just barely.
Because the truth is—we’re both thinking the same thing.
She’s beautiful.
And we’re both completely, helplessly fucked.
And it’s almost funny—almost—how the second I manage to look away from Madeline, I’m met with that face.
Sloane’s.
She’s propped up on one elbow, her sunglasses halfway down her nose, staring at us with a smirk that could slice a man open. The kind that says she’s seen everything—and she’s going to enjoy every damn second of it.
“I told you,” she says, her voice slow, teasing, deadly accurate. “Knew it was only a matter of time before you two turned into her puppies.”
Reid doesn’t even flinch. “Shut up, Sloane.”
She laughs—a low, throaty sound. “Mmm, sure. You keep telling yourself that.” She tips her glasses down just enough to meet both our eyes, her grin widening. “Good luck, though. You’ll need it.”
I narrow my eyes. “With what.”
She takes her time answering, stretching like a cat. “With Liam, for one.”
Reid’s head turns. “What about Liam.”
Sloane’s smirk sharpens. “He told Finn he’s planning to kiss her soon.”
Everything in me goes still. My blood spikes, but my body doesn’t move. Reid doesn’t either—but his jaw flexes hard enough that I can hear it click.
Sloane just shrugs, wickedly pleased with herself. “Oh, and apparently she’s fallen asleep on the couch with them a few times. Finn and Liam. Together.”
The way she says Finn—sharp, clipped—tells me exactly how much that part pisses her off.
She keeps going, utterly unfazed. “It’s like these boys cracked the damn code—pick a movie she hates, bury her in a mountain of blankets, and wait five minutes. She’s out cold.” She snorts. “Then they just stay there with her all night. Like some cozy little fuckin’ sleepover.”
Reid exhales through his nose, sharp and low. I rub a hand over my jaw before I do something stupid, like crush my water bottle in half.
Sloane snickers, rolling onto her back. “Told you she was a shit-stirrer.”
Neither of us answers.
She shrugs again, pulling her sunglasses back up, voice going almost lazy. “Do with that what you will.”
And then she’s done. Just like that. Head tilted back, sunbathing again, as if she hasn’t just lobbed a grenade into the middle of my already-fucked-up head.
Typical Sloane.
All blade, no sugarcoat.
But that’s why we’ve always liked her. She doesn’t play games. She doesn’t care to. She’s been with us long enough to know when something’s brewing, and when to stay the hell out of it.
And she will, I know that. She might not like Madeline, but she respects us—most of the time, anyway—and she’s smart enough not to insert herself into this particular storm.
Still, her words linger.
The others come back a few minutes later—voices loud, laughing, the kind of easy noise that fills the beach and reminds me why we even built this team in the first place.
Finn’s carrying the busted watermelon, holding it like a trophy. Liam’s behind him, grinning like he just won gold. Charlie’s dripping wet and stealing half of Sloane’s towel, and Sloane just groans and mutters something about “children.”
It’s chaos. Familiar, efficient chaos.
And as much as my jaw is still tight from what Sloane said—what she dropped on us—I can’t help the small flicker of pride that pushes through anyway.
This team... we built it. Reid and I. Every goddamn piece of it.
They might drive us insane, but they work hard. They’ve turned a rough, unpredictable job into something that actually works. We’ve got Sloane’s unshakable focus, Charlie’s ridiculous optimism, Finn’s brute energy, Liam’s quick hands, and now—Madeline’s brain. Her instinct. Her heart.
It runs like a machine most of the time. A loud, chaotic, coffee-fueled, slightly unhinged machine—but still. It’s ours.
And it works.
Except now I want to put both of our deckhands through a wall.
Liam’s tossing chunks of watermelon at Finn, both of them laughing, and I’m sitting here thinking about how one of them—maybe both—is planning to kiss her, heck probably more than that.
It’s a damn shame, really. We finally got a team that runs like clockwork, that can handle storms and whales and twelve-hour days without losing it...
And now I’m fighting the urge to deck both of our best guys in the face over a woman asleep on a towel.
A woman who, somehow, made us both lose control of everything.
Yeah. Great management, Jake. Perfectly balanced leadership.
Reid exhales next to me, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl, and mutters under his breath, “We’re gonna have to deal with this, you know.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
We will.
But not now.
Not while she’s sleeping in the sun, soft and warm, with sand on her legs and peace on her face—completely unaware that the men around her are one bad joke away from setting the beach on fire.